Page 161 of Carousel

You are satisfied, I repeat, in my head, to the guard. You are satisfied.

“Yes,” the guard states. “That all seems to be in order. Let me open this up for you.”

We’re in.

The smell in the brig is potent. It’s a stench of faeces and sweat – and the high heat is compounding it.

Each cell only has a tiled floor, a metal bed with padding sewn around it but no proper mattress, a bucket, and some wall restraints that are being used on some prisoners and not on others. I quickly come to the understanding the buckets are what the prisoners are expected to use as lavatories, and many haven’t been emptied.

The prisoners are mostly naked, and I don’t blame them. Their bodies – some of which seem quite emaciated – are soaking in sweat from the temperature. They’re also mostly awake. I wonder if the faint laser lights in the ceiling of every cell mean it’s too light for them to sleep.

They clamour at us as we go past. Claw their fingers through their grates. Some shout obscenities, or the usual insults used for Rhavnans.

I can’t imagine being in this foul, miserable place for more than a few minutes, let alone hours, days, weeks. How long will it be until Cosmer’s trial?

Right when I think maybe Cosmer isn’t even here – a thought that actually gives me hope, because maybe he was freed without me knowing – I see him. He’s lying on his side in the furthest cell. I think I’d recognise the colour and texture of his thick hair, the slender length of his neck, the arch of his back, if I saw them from the moon.

I run like my life depends on it. My heart slams against me.

“Cosmer!” I cry, louder than I’d like with so many eyes on us, but I can’t help it.

He rolls over, but though he’s looking at me, he doesn’t seem to see me.

Dropping down in front of his cell, I say, in a rush, “Cosmer, I’m here.”

It’s like I come into focus for him. His eyes grow huge. “Ara?”

He lurches out of the bed. He’s naked but for a sheet. In the space of a second, he’s staggered over to me and collapsed by the grate. We’re directly opposite each other now. There are only centimetres between us. Why do they feel like miles?

I thread my fingers through the holes in the grate, which are so narrow I can only get one finger in each. On the other side, he wraps the tips of his own fingers around mine, and then plants kisses over them.

It’s wonderful to touch him. Even if only like this. Feel his skin, warm, under my skin. His lips, soft, over it.

He looks at me, and I can’t take it. I’m moving, pressing my mouth against the grate. He comes up to meet me with his own.

Our lips find each other.

I taste more metal than I do him. But it’s enough.

“Are you really here?” he chokes, when we pull away. “I’m not dreaming you?”

“I’m here,” I repeat, my fingers stroking his.

“I thought I heard someone say your name,” he breathes. “I thought I was losing my mind. I thought it was just the⁠—”

His head moves, like he’s being rocked by another force. It makes the light hit him differently.

And a part of me dies.

“Cosmer,” I gasp. “Your eyes!”

They had seemed large to me, because they are. His pupils are fat as plums. The whites of his eyes are threaded with blood.

I’m crying.

I think I already was.

“I was too disruptive,” he says. And even though what he’s telling me is awful, painful, world-shattering, he’s saying it with something of a smile.